


A Sweet Pain

by Elysiummm



Category: Baldur's Gate
Genre: Blood Drinking, Choking, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings, Shameless Smut, Smut, Vampire Sex, neck related sexy things
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-11
Updated: 2021-01-11
Packaged: 2021-03-15 21:49:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,650
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28695729
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elysiummm/pseuds/Elysiummm
Summary: During the tiefling celebration at camp, Wyll comes to console Astarion, who is feeling particularly miserable with a bottle of vinegar for wine. Terrible seductions, worse one-liners, and perhaps the ember of understanding that they might know each other the best.
Relationships: Astarion/Wyll (Baldur's Gate)
Comments: 7
Kudos: 40





	A Sweet Pain

“Even you have no excuse for looking as miserable as that,” said Wyll with a wide smile. “Come on, look at them.” 

He gestured with his tankard across the clearing, where Gale continued to entertain the tiefling kids with sparkly illusions. Fireworks of red and gold streaked across the horizon. The kids squealed and screamed, chasing ghostly dogs and fey-like creatures. Wyll himself had spent hours conjuring fistfulls of cold flames and making shadow puppets. Even the older kids, the ones who had been forced to put aside childhood and fight, had found themselves smiling. Everyone did. Even Lae’zel.

Astarion gave the kids a disdainful scowl. It twisted on his face, like expressions tended to, and somehow formed a smile. “You know, I never pictured myself as a hero,” he said. “Never thought I would ever be the one they’d toast for saving so many lives.”

Wyll dropped himself beside Astarion. The log kicked into his back. The spot had a wide look over the entire party, if it was a bit on the outskirts. “Gotta get used to it, mate. So many will need our help, whatever the brainbugs are doing to us. It’ll take some getting used to, don’t get me wrong.”

Astarion contemplated the bottle of wine Tav had pushed into his hands when the party began. He took a swig with a grimace. “I hate it,” he said passionately. “This is awful.”

Wyll laughed. “Don’t be such a complainer. I know, it’s your speciality, but if you’re so set on using these powers the least any of us can do is put them to good use.” He rose his tankard. “To freedom from tyranny! A clear path for the downtrodden to travel. And to the newest hero of Baldur’s Gate.”

Astarion groaned, but accepted the toast, head hanging. He took another sip of his wine and made another moan of complaint.

“Let me have at that, then,” said Wyll.

Astarion gave the bottle and Wyll wiped the rim. Despite hunting monsters these last ten-odd years, he hadn’t come across vampires. All he knew, they were poisonous. Astarion certainly had enough venom, anyway. The wine was rich and dark, a dry red heavy on the tongue.

Astarion leaned back against the wall, eyebrow raised. “See what I mean? Awful. What a waste of a day — and now night.”

“Think of all the goblins you got to kill,” said Wyll. “And drink.”

Astarion smirked and tipped his head back, licking his fangs. “You’re right there. That was fun. All said, I would’ve preferred more than a pat on the head and vinegar.”

Wyll tipped back the rest of the wine. Even with his moaning, Astarion had killed most of the bottle. Didn’t look like vampires could get drunk, though. To be the only sober one at a party, that was a rough time. A sliver of pity entered him. Only a sliver.

Astarion’s eyes, too heavy, too serious, fell on Wyll again. He smiled. “You know, we always could make our own little fun. Spend a little time together.”

“Well. If you wanna go headhunting, I’m down.” He frowned. “I don’t think I’ve had…  _ that _ much. Still know which end of the sword to stick in a gobbo. Sure we could find a handful of survivors somewhere.”

Astarion chuckled. “Your offer is commendable, darling, but that wasn’t quite what I had in mind.”

Wyll found his tankard and sipped. The druids’ ale was a touch too bitter, but strong. “What’d you have in mind?”

“Oh, just you, and me, and maybe a little death.”

“Thought that was what I just offered.”

Astarion smiled suggestively, indulgently. 

Wyll shook his head and drank. “Maybe if you ask nice.”

“Please,” he whispered. The word sounded like a prayer to Sune, an erotic purr that would’ve sent a monk running. Astarion had reached a hand. It landed on Wyll’s thigh. Through the thick linen trousers, he couldn’t feel the lithe fingers creep closer, but he sure felt the blush rise.

Hells. The vampire was actually  _ serious _ .

“I’m… flattered. I am.” He met Astarion’s eye and felt his heart plummet. Those eyes were red, dark and sticky like blood. And old. Not like an elf, but like something else. “I can’t, not you — and I don’t want you to take this personal. I like you, mate.”

Astarion’s hand didn’t move. “But you want more,” he said in a voice so low it nearly vibrated. “You’re interested in what we could do together.”

“Would’ve thought you out of everyone would know,” said Wyll dully.

Astarion gave him a blank look.

Wyll pulled his legs back to himself and forced a smile. “Telling me, after all those horror stories you told around the fire about Cazador, that you  _ don’t _ know what it’s like to be controlled by some unholy patron that destroys everything about you and how you relate to people?”

Astarion’s look become blanker, more mask-like, and the graceful movements stiffened as he withdrew. “As far as seductions go, that might be the worst I’ve ever heard.”

“Not trying to seduce. Just, know something about something.”

“You know very little,” he said, voice brittle.

“I know you got pain. I do, too. Not saying ours are the same, but I know better than the others.” Wyll’s smile had no humour. “It’s why you didn’t scowl and tell me to fuck off when I came round tonight.”

Astarion settled back further, propped up on his elbows with a determinedly grim pout. “All I wanted was sex.”

“And all I wanted was to be a hero,” snapped Wyll, harsher than he meant to. “Life doesn’t give us all what we want.”

“You are a hero,” said Astarion, sounding thoroughly disgusted with the notion. “Heroing, clearly, has nothing to do with what you are and everything to do with what people  _ think _ you are. You’re their hero. Those horned brats running around.”

The words burrowed into him, finding a home, all the more meaningful for whom they came from. Astarion would’ve have spared someone the truth; his chronic lack of tact wouldn’t allow it. Wyll began to smile.

His eye ached. The polished sending stone crackled with a warm, comforting static. Like a caress of the mind, a soft reminder of his leash. It rotted the smile on his lips.

“Can’t even look at someone without seeing her,” he whispered. Even mentioning it, his mind flooded with visions. Beautiful pink lips. Flaxen hair. The smell of lilacs and sulfur, a dark temptation, as horns pushed through and the skin rusted. And, somehow, he still hadn’t pulled away. “She — I am hers. One stupid, desperate decision and I sold her my soul, for eternity, in exchange for these cursed powers.”

His words were too heavy for the night, spurned on by drink and the measure of quiet on the edge of their camp. Gale laughed heartily and a trio of more Gales appeared, singing a children’s rhyme in chorus. 

“I was wrong,” said Astarion blithely. “ _ That _ was the worst seduction I’ve ever heard.”

Suddenly reminded Astarion was still there, Wyll flushed. He hadn’t meant to unload like that. He stumbled and tried to find his footing, but the ground wobbled under him. Astarion stood smoothly.

“Going to rejoin your little party?” he asked.

“I just — I don’t know what I want,” said Wyll. Now summoned, Mizora wouldn’t leave. He would have no more peace tonight, not unless he found several more bottles.  _ That _ was something the bards would never sing about.

Astarion stepped closer, closer than was strictly friendly. “I think you want to be known,” he said softly. “To forget. To lose yourself in me.”

Wyll was the taller, but he suddenly felt like he was looking up at him. There was so much of Astarion that was easy to read as vampire, as monster. The chalky skin, the cruel eyes, the fanged smile, the liquid grace, the velvet voice. Yet, more of it was Astarion, a pain in the collective ass of everyone who knew him — but not a monster. Sarcastic, tactless, rude, vicious, but helpful, witty, loyal in the worst ways. For tonight, a reluctant hero.

A friend wearing the skin of a monster. 

Astarion looked up through his eyelashes. “Don’t feel like talking?”

He stepped closer.

It made a change from monsters wearing the skin of friends.

Wyll swallowed. “What?”

Astarion laughed softly. With a light touch, a finger traced along the jut of Wyll’s scars, down the edge of his jaw, and lingered at his neck a moment too long before continuing on its way to lay a flat hand on his chest.

“Better keep those fangs in check, mate.” Wyll kept his own shiver in check.

Irritation pulled a glare from him. “This isn’t about hunger, it’s about pleasure.”

“Didn’t mean that. Meant more like I don’t wanna end up a eunuch after tonight.”

Astarion chuckled. The mischievous low rumble brought a smile to Wyll. The hand slid down his chest to rest on his hip.

“Oh, don’t worry, I don’t break my toys. Not often, anyway.”

“Not encouraging,” said Wyll breathlessly.

He tutted. His other hand began the same journey, but lingered on the curve of his neck, dragging him closer. The fingers were cold, like stone left in the shade. “You want me to keep my lips off your Blade of Frontiers?”

The breath whispered against his lips.

His mind spun, but he managed, “That is the worst line I’ve heard you say.”

“Oh, I know,” said Astarion, disappointed, “but I’ve been drafting others. I have a few variations about the Blade being greatsword or dagger, but I’m still workshopping those.”

Wyll smiled. “I like to think it’s a broadsword.”

Astarion’s eyes roved him, intimately, and his lips parted. “ _ I’ll _ be the judge of that, darling.” He wrinkled his nose. “We really ought find some degree of privacy. I’d rather not scare the children.”

“See.” Wyll’s smile grew. “You  _ do _ care. Warms my heart—”

Astarion’s hand found its way back to Wyll’s neck and his long fingers wrapped around. Delicate, not holding tight at all, but the words died unspoken in the careful control. Wyll’s pulse beat through his hand. Astarion’s eyes darkened with lust and he pressed Wyll backwards into the woods. The trees swallowed them, footsteps softened by the dirt and undergrowth. The party fell from view, but Wyll couldn’t take his eyes off Astarion. Time stopped in those eyes.

Wyll’s next step brought him against a tree. Astarion took another step and exerted the tiniest pressure on his neck. Breath came a little shallower. The party sounded well and truly quiet, celebrations from another world. 

“Maybe you should ask nicely,” said Astarion with a gleam in his smile.

Wyll found a fragment of discipline, of self-respect. He grinned. “No.”

Astarion forced him against the tree. His kiss was cold, bracing. Bruising. Wyll’s fingers locked through the mess of tangled curls, dragging him closer, deeper. Astarion’s hands found laces and buttons, efficient. The passion spurred him on, leaving a frenzied tangle of clothes at their feet. His skin was smooth and cool to the touch, despite the day of battle in the hot sun. 

Wyll pulled him closer, desperate to feel more. He fell into him as the kiss deepened with hunger. Astarion had more than the two fangs — Wyll’s tongue found several more pointed teeth, sharp to the touch. Astarion’s arms wrapped around him, dragging him closer, and he sighed with pleasure.

Astarion’s lips left his, a trail of nips finding Wyll’s neck — despite his earlier promise. Astarion slowly licked the artery, tracing the path with his tongue, lost in the sensation. Wyll's pulse quickened and he felt the cutting smile. So lost, when Wyll gave him a good push, he fell completely over and hit the ground with a grunt. 

A darkness passed over him until Wyll pounced, returning the kiss. Wyll’s lips glided down his chest, tasting, leaving wet kisses behind. Astarion hummed in contentment. His skin was smooth but not soft. Little about Astarion was. The pointed cheekbones, sharp tongue, and planes of wiry hard muscle. He was stronger than he looked.

Wyll closed his eyes and inhaled. The smell was just everywhere. The red wine and… It was only the smell of the day, of battle, still on them both. Sweat and blood. Nothing finer.

He didn’t hesitate when he reached his trousers, unlacing them. With Astarion in hand, Wyll leaned over him to kiss him again.

“Found something in there you like?” asked Astarion, his eyes lazy and half-hooded and Wyll thought he had never seen anything more beautiful. His own hand delved into Wyll’s trousers.

The gentle stroke brought a soft moan from Wyll and his head dipped against his neck. Astarion seized the moment of weakness. Wyll found himself pressed into the damp ground as Astarion straddled him. He grabbed their erections in a single hand, stroking gently. 

“Ask nicely,” he said.

Wyll groaned and tipped his head back.

Astarion slicked his hand and continued to stroke their cocks together. The pleasure trembled. “Not even a please?” 

He bore down on him, lips suddenly inches away. The cruel ripe mouth curled into a smile. His hips began to thrust, Wyll’s cock sliding against him, slick and eager. Astarion dropped his lips to his neck in a long, languid kiss. Even as Wyll sighed into it, the teeth pressed as a reminder. Sharp fangs. The hickey became a mockery of what he could do. He could take him, if he wanted. In such a state, Wyll couldn’t have fought him off, even if he wanted to. 

Did he want to?

Astarion kissed the length of the quickening pulse. “Beg,” he whispered. “Beg for me, sweetheart.”

“Not bloody likely.”

Wyll dragged Astarion by the hair back to where those lips rightfully belonged — on his own. He pushed Astarion onto his back and, before he could react, took the length in his mouth. It was velvet wrapped steel. Wyll had wondered how such things went for undead, but it looked like things were in working order. A salty bite of precome spread across his tongue as he sucked. Astarion moaned approvingly and tipped Wyll’s chin up to look at him.

“I like you best like this, Blade,” he said, his voice tight with thirst. “And, to think, I thought you would ram a stake in me once you learned. Serves me. What a delightful discovery — the Blade would rather fuck monsters than slay them.”

Wyll pulled him from his mouth. “Do you ever shut up?”

Astarion gripped him by the dreads and forced him down again. “No,” he said pleasantly. “Not when I have such a captive audience.”

As Astarion rammed his cock down his throat, filling the air with his own sighs and moans, Wyll found it almost impossible to control his own. The pressure built. The vampire had a point. What was he doing, in the middle of the woods, letting him push him around like that? Another life, he would’ve killed the bastard, not sucked him. Still should, after all he’s seen his friend do.

Astarion’s moans changed in pitch and he sighed, pulling his cock free from Wyll’s mouth. Hand still controlling his dreads, he directed Wyll to lie on his back again. Astarion climbed on top of him, his wet hard length pressing between Wyll’s thighs.

“What, wanna finish on my face?” asked Wyll bitterly. “Not humiliated me enough?”

“Humiliate?” asked Astarion, surprised. His smile cut. “Only if you’re into that. Besides, I didn’t force my cock in your mouth.” He leaned down to steal another breathless kiss, forcefully pushing Wyll’s head into the dirt. “Now, are you going to play righteous monster hunter and keep resisting? Must say,  _ I _ am into that.”

“Why?”

Astarion’s hand traced a path down his muscles with a soft moan. “Romantic ideas of corruption.”

“Not much of me is left uncorrupted,” said Wyll. He had meant it as a joke, but the words summoned her again — Mizora, the burnt husk of the village, the cambion transforming mid-act. Most of him had been afraid, horrified, still a small part of him hummed with desire. His head ached with a familiar burning thud and he knew Astarion saw her.

Astarion didn’t pull back. He pressed the length of his body against him. “Your mistress?”

“Yeah,” said Wyll softly. “I… I should go. Got a history with fucking monsters, like you said. Don’t wanna turn it into a habit.”

Astarion’s face turned thoughtful, distant. “You are righteous. Insufferably so. It’s what makes you quite so desirable. It bleeds out of every pore,” he said, savouring those words. 

His hand slunk back to Wyll’s neck, fingers stroking the thuddy pulse, wrapping around. Not choking, merely holding. Wyll shut his eyes and leaned into the touch.

“Lucky for you, I am a gentlemen,” said Astarion loftily, “and I can’t let you leave this little tryst so thoroughly unsatisfied.”

Wyll had to snort, which made the grip tighten. “Gotta say, I’m still a bit anxious on the thought of those fangs at my bits. Seen what damage they can do first hand.”

Astarion’s smile preened, showing the little beasties. “I was thinking something more memorable.” He settled himself between Wyll’s thighs and the grip on his neck tightened with a quick pulse, like a kiss. “I was going to fuck you until all that remained in the raw ecstasy of your mind was my name on your lips.”

Astarion must’ve felt the heartbeat kick up, because he grinned.

“Sounds alright,” said Wyll nonchalantly.

Astarion rummaged in his discarded clothes for a vial of oil. None could say he was gentle, but he was thorough. Wyll forced himself to relax into the prodding fingers, the way every moan made Astarion choke them off. Then, all too soon, Astarion’s fingers slipped from him and he braced a leg against his shoulder. The head teased his entrance and Wyll couldn’t tear his eyes away from his face. From that small knowing smile.

And he sunk in, slowly, then all at once. Wyll bore down at the quick stretch, the sudden fullness in his hole. Astarion pushed himself to the root, then rolled his hips deeper, pulsing. Wyll pulled him closer, as though it were possible to disappear entirely in him. In the lips and the smile and the hand at his throat. 

He clawed at his back as Astarion began to move, a raw moan ripping itself free. Despite being a vampire, he was also a good lover. Wyll hadn’t expected that. He didn’t know how to deal when Astarion’s promise began to come true, when the world faded and time stopped and all that existed was how Astarion fucked him. Hard and deep, lips murmuring dark words at his ear about how tight he felt, how hot he sounded, how he would do this any night. Wyll only had to ask nicely.

Wyll tried to silence the whispers with a kiss, but he couldn’t find enough senses to make it one. Their lips mashed together in broken moans, desperate. Sweat dripped to meet their lips. Wyll bit his lip and, startled, Astarion pulled away. A wry fang caught Wyll’s own and a sharp icy pain sliced it open.

Astarion moaned very differently, eyes looking through him as though he were a ghost. Wary, Astarion returned to the kiss, licking at the small wound. It couldn’t have been more than a spoonful, but Astarion trembled at the pleasure. He cursed, throaty and tight with need.

Wyll dug his fingers through his hair and ground against him. Wasn’t so bad. Even charming, in a way, how a few drops made Astarion lose himself. He imagined, briefly, Astarion’s hand on his neck replaced by fangs and pushed the image away before he could find out how it affected him.

As Astarian slipped out of him, Wyll found a smile on his face. His hands moved down Astarians back to the curve of his ass. 

“My turn,” he said, panting. 

Astarion jerked up, face dark with fury. An undead hand, abnormally strong, pinned Wyll to the ground. “Touch me and I will leave your bloodless corpse for the crows,” growled Astarian in a voice more beast than man. 

The rage twisted in his eyes wasn’t aimed at Wyll, but he felt it nonetheless. Shocked. His head throbbed in a familiar way. The forest vanished, the feel of the dirt under him. Suddenly, he was seeing another face, another elf, another vampire. A crypt dark room, miles and years of darkness, and loneliness, and loyalty. 

Astarion snarled at the headache and the grip tightened, but there was no playful control in it. Only fear.

Wyll softened. His hands slid back up, past the torrent of scars, and pulled him into a gentle kiss. Astarion stilled, confusion and horror meeting past the tadpole connection. The hand on Wyll’s neck lost strength and the kiss deepened, becoming something else. Something softer and unspoken.

“Change positions, then?” muttered Wyll.

Astarion nodded and pushed him around like a ragdoll, but his touch was distant, disconnected, his mind miles away. He brushed off some of the damper bits of earth, arranging Wyll on his knees until it pleased him. The cock returned, probing at his entrance, and Wyll sighed as it sunk deep.

Astarion gripped his hips, nails digging in, and pulled him back onto it. He found his rhythm again, but his heart wasn’t in it. Even when he found a better angle, and Wyll almost collapsed from the blinding pleasure. He only chuckled and fucked him harder. 

A hand pushed Wyll into the dirt, face-first, and he gasped. He hadn’t ever had a lover treat him like that, though he knew he shouldn’t have expected anything less. They were just so pleased to be with the Blade of Frontiers, like he was some glass statue they managed to get a hold of and were afraid to break.

With Astarion, as he had admitted, that was sort of the whole point. And Wyll couldn’t say he found the idea unappealing.

Astarion quickened his pace and pressed his face against his shoulder blades. Cool breath tickled his back. 

Wyll pulled himself back to all fours. Their bodies pressed together, flush. He leaned into his grip and moaned. He reached for his head and Astarion leaned into his neck. The flash of teeth pressed to him — not breaking the skin. Just the merest suggestion. A reminder amidst a bruising hickey.

“Do it,” said Wyll hoarsely. He barely recognised his own voice choked with lust. 

The thrusting slowed, becoming hard and deep. Every inch took its time and wrung new moans from them both. 

Breathless, Astarian bit his ear. Fangs scored the skin. “Say  _ please _ , great monster slayer.”

“Please.”

Astarion licked, searching for a spot. And he struck, a flash of icy pain stabbing. The sensation radiated through Wyll. Astarion grabbed his cock and began to stroke. Rocking backwards to meet the thrusts, Wyll knew he wouldn't last long. Neither of them would.

A tingling numbness radiated down his neck. His instinct to struggle, to pull away from the bite, died in the numbness. The compliance. Wyll groaned softly and threaded his fingers deeper into Astarion’s hair. He bit harder, a renewed flash of cold pain, and the numbness deepened. The surrender. The peace.

Wyll had thought it would hurt more. The goblins Astarion had ripped open hadn’t exactly looked happy to feel fangs. But it didn’t, just barely. He hadn’t expected for Astarion to be right — to want to lose himself in him. To fade into the yearning and the way he held him, the way he fucked him. The teeth at his neck, the hand on his cock, the cock in his ass. The last shred of self-respect left him and he moaned, deeply.

Astarion struggled to keep his rhythm as their orgasms approached.

Wyll pulled at his hair. The shard of fresh pain almost pushed him over the edge. “Oh, yes,” he groaned. “Don’t stop. Oh, hells, Astarion. I’m so close.”

A few more thrusts and Wyll fell over the edge, shaking in his grip as Astarion milked the orgasm from him. Astarion made a sound, somewhere between a moan and a growl low in his throat, and he finished deep inside him. 

A few more rolling thrusts pressed deep, a few more long licks, and Astarion pulled back. Wyll felt weak, the strength leaving him in every way. He could barely stay on all fours. Standing seemed impossible. The night was so quiet, so peaceful. Like time stopped.

Astarion gave him a good push and Wyll fell over, laughing. The soft dirt and moss clung to him. He shut his eyes, smiling as he felt Astarion’s orgasm leak from him. He opened his eyes to find Astarion looking down at him. His smile wasn’t tainted by irony. It looked even genuine. Astarion stroked his face gently, almost petting him, and Wyll turned into his arms. Where his face landed, he pressed his lips to the skin and felt Astarion murmur in approval. The last dregs of consciousness faded away at the touch.

Maybe minutes, maybe hours, Wyll opened his eyes. Astarion had moved. Stiff and cold, still tired, Wyll struggled to sit up. Dawn broke through the trees, shedding a patch of dim grey sunlight only a few feet away. Astarion, in the middle of getting dressed, stood in it, content. The rough scars Wyll had felt on his back made a pattern. They had been done deliberately. Like the rest, Wyll had been assuming Astarion had been exaggerating or lying about Cazador carving poetry. It all seemed so melodramatic.

“Not one for a cuddle, I guess?” asked Wyll.

Astarion smiled over his shoulder. “You sleep light. Would’ve thought you’d be exhausted after last night.”

Wyll tried to stretch the kinks from his muscles. “You weren’t that good.”

“Lie to yourself, if you want. We both know the truth.” He turned back and grabbed his shirt, long discarded.

“That’s the poem, isn’t it?” asked Wyll quietly.

Astarion retreated behind his eyes. “Yes, what of it?”

“Can I see it?” Wyll stood and put a hand on his shoulder. Astarion tensed, but didn’t shirk like he typically did.

He sneered. “You’ve seen more than enough. And if I can’t see it, you certainly can’t.”

“I think it’s Infernal,” said Wyll, regretting the words. “I recognise the language, from — from her.”

Astarion hurried his fingers to rebutton his shirt. “I don’t give a damn, rightfully. Whatever it says, whatever language, it won’t change—” His fingers stuttered and he avoided Wyll’s eye. “It won’t change what he did to me.”

Wyll had never seen him like that. The weight on his shoulders, the soft grief in his voice. It elicited… not pity, which he knew Astarion would loathe. Closer to understanding.

“I’ll help you kill him,” he promised. “When this is all over with, when we’re not at risk of sprouting tentacles, I’ll help you hunt the bastard and kill him.”

Astarion frowned, muddling over the words. “You’ll be expecting help in kind, I’m sure.”

“I’ll never be free until I find her and do what she says,” said Wyll. The mention brought a tingling to his eye and he winced.

“Or kill her.” He smiled with fangs. “I do wonder what a cambion tastes like.” He clasped Wyll by the chin and Mizora blew from his mind like cobwebs. “How do you feel, this morning?”

“Everything hurts. Drink, fangs, and sex are a rough combination on the body.” He smiled.

The long fingers stroked his face. “Oh, but what a sweet pain. I consider myself honoured I was able to sheathe  _ my _ blade in you.”

“How long were you working on that?”

Astarion sighed. “Not nearly long enough, I’m afraid.”


End file.
